


Petrichor

by dana_norram



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25654960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dana_norram/pseuds/dana_norram
Summary: You know you will be here for a while, so you say his name. Only for yourself, yes, but you say it, quietly. It’s a prayer, almost. You want to know how it feels on your tongue, against the roof of your mouth. This sacred offer.It’s the only part of him you haven’t tasted yet.“Mirko.”
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 12
Kudos: 27





	Petrichor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fedorah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fedorah/gifts).



> [fedorah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fedorah/pseuds/fedorah) is not only the one responsible for me writing my first non-smutty Helermo fic ever, but she's also the most amazing beta someone could ever ask for and she cheers me up even when I can't seem to grasp the notion of the ins and ons! Thank you, bb, for everything, but especially for being there at the oddest hours.
> 
> Also, I am not saying you all should listen to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ADCmc6WahE4&) as you read, but it would change the experience considerably. Just in case you thought I was kidding about the 'Religious Imagery & Symbolism' tag.

Helsinki falls asleep in your arms and that’s why you cannot move.

No, wait. That’s not right. Not Helsinki, no.

_Mirko_.

You sigh to banish the air from your body. You are now a set of clean, empty parts, empty lungs, empty chest, empty heart. All that room just waiting to be filled up again. You have told him your sins, but you never asked for forgiveness. He acquitted you all the same.

You rest your back against the door so you can hold him as he sleeps. He gave you something when you thought you had nothing else to hold on to.

You know you will be here for a while, so you say his name. Only for yourself, yes, but you say it, quietly. It’s a prayer, almost. You want to know how it feels on your tongue, against the roof of your mouth. This sacred offer.

It’s the only part of him you haven’t tasted yet.

“Mir-ko.”

It’s not that different from Martín, you think. Two syllables, two lives, two lovers who never got to use the words, two broken mirrors. There are so many pieces to be put back together now.

“Mirko.”

He still does not stir, face buried against your chest. He must be so tired.

You wonder if he managed more than a couple of hours of sleep in the last couple of days. You should have known it, come to think of that. You were responsible for him. For them.

For her, as well.

You close your eyes and you can almost picture him sitting by her sickbed, waiting for her to wake up from your mistake. She could make mistakes, he said, but not you.

You wonder if he prayed, then. It didn’t matter if he did, and it certainly didn’t help. Gandía found her first.

Gandía found him second.

And you can’t bear to think about what would have happened if Tokyo and Bogotá had arrived only two seconds too late. You stare in horror and awe at the purple bruises around his neck, scattered where the rope kissed him deeply and slowly, took his breath away.

You thought he would be heavier, here, somehow.

Maybe it’s just the way half of his body lies on the floor, legs curled against yours, chest against your lap, his head on your arms. His beard tickles your naked skin, but you don’t dare move. He must be tired, because he heard your confession, then he cried himself to sleep.

It’s the debris scattered on the floor that bothers you. It stings against your legs, but still, you don’t move.

You try to distract yourself. You try to add up the bullet holes around the room, but you lose count twice before you finally give up. They’re everywhere. They’re on the doors, on the walls, the windows, the floor covered with empty shells.

Like a beach after the hightide, a paved street after a hailstone storm.

The air is heavy with wood dust and it dances before your eyes. You can’t see very well, but it feels familiar.

You remember being inside a cathedral with Andrés, on your first time in Europe. Maybe it was Notre Dame, or Cologne, or la Sagrada Familia, it does not matter now.

He was the artist, he knew the stories behind each fresco, and you only wanted to see where the cornerstones were laid. Now he’s gone, so he won’t care if you don’t get the place right for this metaphor.

It’s the stained-glass you think about, anyway. How it filtered the sun into beams of coloured light.

You try not to breathe in the dust, afraid it would fill your lungs and pierce you from within. You close your eyes again and try to remember the cathedral, the light, the mass, the singing. You can’t help thinking about the hymn you all sang not even an entire day before. It feels a lifetime ago.

Her lifetime.

It was her life and you traded it for ninety tons of gold.

It’s seems much better a bargain than thirty pieces of silver, and you think maybe you should go and find a rope with your name on.

But you cannot move, because you don’t want to wake him up. He’s had enough. He has lost enough.

“Mirko.”

You say it again, a little louder this time.

You wonder if she knew his name. You never heard her say it out loud, but after two years of traveling together, she must have known, surely? He must have told her. She was in love, after all. Can you be in love with someone you don’t know completely?

He could.

He said he knew you from the beginning and you can’t help wondering exactly where, when... _how_? How did he find out? What gave you away?

Was it something you said? Something you did? Something you let slip in one of those nights you let him have you?

After the chapel, you promised yourself you won’t let it happen again. If no-one knew you wanted them to stay, maybe it wouldn’t hurt that much when they walked away, too.

Maybe someone told him. Maybe he heard something during all those months before the Mint... but before you can entertain that idea for too long, though, you chuckle. Andrés would never have admitted he failed.

Not even Sergio knew, not the whole story, surely. He certainly didn’t know about the chapel. He lacked most social skills, our Professor, but he was never a cruel man. Would he have made you sit there for two months and stare at his brother’s face if he knew?

_Oh_.

Maybe that’s how he found out.

He must have noticed the way your eyes avoided that space on your left, how your voice faltered, sometimes, when you talked about the plan, the times you tried to make justice to his favourite bits and pieces, when you tried to not let it show, every time you tried to compensate, to fill up the space that used to be his.

How could you keep singing by yourself a song written for a duet?

It hurts, still, but when you close your eyes, it’s her face you see, shoved through a door, wood splinters like a crown of thorns. She was in pain.

Somehow, you knew she wouldn’t make it. You knew every word of that hymn. Your mother used to sing it in the choir, but Gandía stopped before the third stanza. It was an important one.

There, that’s how it goes:

_You know what I have  
In my boat there is neither gold nor swords  
Only my nets and my work_

He told you she volunteered first. How she agreed to melt gold to help the family she never had, but that was not her dream, nor her abducted lover, nor her mistake. You all send her away in a wooden box.

It was the same one the Browning was brought in.

And you cannot forget there were tears in his eyes, when you pressed the button to close the Bank's doors, when he put down his harmonica. There were tears in his eyes when he restrained himself and didn’t shoot Gandía. There were tears in his eyes an hour ago, when he offered you his name, his losses, his future.

And what did you give him back? If he already knew who you are, you didn’t offer nothing but a name to put on it.

“Martín?”

You can’t say exactly when your silent tears turned into ugly sobs, when your whole body began to shake. You never meant to wake him.

He disentangles himself from you and he stares at you, a hand on your face.

You try to focus on him, but your eyes deceive you and your tears blind you, and still, you can tell he looks like he knows exactly what he sees. He presses a kiss against your forehead, and you bury your face in his neck, taking it all in.

You think he smells like blood and gunpowder and the air does not feel so heavy anymore.

Maybe it rained and washed it all away.

  
  


_Tú sabes bien lo que tengo,  
En mi barca no hay oro ni espadas,  
Tan sólo redes y mi trabajo._  
**Pescador de Hombres**

**Author's Note:**

> Petrichor (/ˈpɛtrɪkɔːr/) is the earthy scent produced when rain falls on dry soil. The word is constructed from Greek petra (πέτρα), "rock", or petros (πέτρος), "stone", and īchōr (ἰχώρ), the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods in Greek mythology. (Quote: [wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Petrichor))
> 
> Fascinated by this word, [fedorah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fedorah/pseuds/fedorah) and I both prompted each other to write a Helermo one-shot (1000 to 3000 words) with Petrichor as the title and post it at the same time.
> 
> We both went in different directions - we are curious to see how you like it! So make sure [to check out hers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25652122) as well!
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated :)


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